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The Water




The water isn't really black—
remove all the shadows
(can you do that?)
and transparency is revealed:
so clear, so true, you can see
the corpses in the shallows
glaring up at you.

Delipped by fish
(where are the fish?)
they have drunk their fill,
are filled, gurgle no more, are done
with the water, though the water
isn't done with them.
Swim?

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.